The country gentleman walked onto
the stage
wearing
a white shirt and black trousers,
a
red guitar hanging on his every move,
his
hair white snow,
his
face lined and kind.
It
was lovely to see him again.
Bass
notes pulled four others, quiet
and
unassuming, from behind black curtains,
each
adding nuance, accents—
a
flute, guitars, electric keys—
though
they might have been blue jays
arriving
from the neon mountain—
an
old album cover—
projected
on the theater wall.
The
acolytes gave him space,
always
behind the man
yet
always with him,
chiming
in, fading, swaying, praying,
invisible
incense for the holy notes.
Once
upon a time
I
could reach out and touch the legend of a mind
as
it electrified Zen gardens
with
a diamond needle raking vinyl
like
a monk grooming rock and roll sand.
It
was my own mind too,
which
traveled to the threshold
of
a wildest dream, a lost chord,
days
of future passed.
I
didn’t know that they would last,
that
there was to be a second coming
for
this son of man, this humble lord.
Someone
asked him if he missed the others,
longed
for the camaraderie of his band.
No,
not really.
He
said the music was for now,
was
intimate, personal, free.
“It’s
for you and me,
you
and me.”
~William Hammett
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